Stand Up and Step Forward, a Metalocalypse ficlet
by LilyMoon'sAlias
Summary: Spoilers for the season finale. The band is in danger. Their home is in ruins. What happens next? Disclaimer: Metalocalypse is owned by Small and Blancha. I make nothing from the stories.
1. Chapter 1

Pickles was drowning in a turmoil of emotion. Their manager/lawyer/protector was seriously injured if not already dying. A large portion of their home was nothing more than a smoldering mass of scorched timber and red hot stone. The members of the band were at least all gathered together although they were shaken and filthy, soot and dirt and char smudging their faces in a more realistic mask than even the best efforts the make up artists could portray with the corpse paint.

Murderface was standing with his arms crossed watching Mordhaus burn. Nathan was crouched over Ofdensen's broken, bloody body like some wild beast protecting a fallen member of the pack. Every so often he would extend a hesitant hand as if he wanted to touch Ofdensen and reassure himself that the lawyer was still there and still alive, but he always drew back with a savage snarl before making contact, only slightly shifting his stance and seeming to grow even larger with rage.

Toki knelt beside them, still sick and intoxicated, clinging to the hem of Nathan's torn shirt. His befuddled mind couldn't handle any thought more coherent than he was safe where he was and moving would be a bad idea. Pickles didn't approach them. The gurgling, gasping sound of Ofdensen's breathing was enough to let him know that the man was still alive and in desperate need of medical attention. Self preservation instincts also told him that getting anywhere near Nathan or his two charges at the moment would be suicidal.

Pickles was surprised to find his hands shaking. Even more surprising was the reason. For the first in longer than he could remember Pickles was stone cold sober. Facing down assassins and narrowly escaping with your life had a way of doing that to a man. He stumbled back to where Skwisgaar sat with the album master. The Swede's eyes were red, swollen and suspiciously wet. His empty arms curved like they were holding something and his fingers twitched. Pickles almost sneered something derogatory about the guitarist being more concerned over the loss of his instruments than the state of the band, Ofdensen's possible death, but a memory made the words dissolve on his tongue. Skwisgaar, the vain, self centered peacock who had easily agreed that none of them should care about any of the others, had stood up tall and strong and told Pickles to get behind him when they were confronted with death.

Pickles didn't say anything, just looked at Skwisgaar until the other man noticed him watching.

"It's de smoke and ashes what are makings my eyes waterings!" Skwisgaar snapped and dipped his head so that his dirty, tangled hair covered his face.

"Yeah," Pickles agreed and made a show of mopping his own eyes with one of his wristbands.

He sat down with Skwisgaar, very close but not touching and stared at the ruin before them. The air was chokingly thick with smoke and the sounds of shouts, explosions and gunfire. His throat ached and his chest grew tight. What the fuck, man? Just...what the fuck?

Pickles nearly started violently from his pained thoughts when he felt Skwisgaar's shoulder pressing into his. After only a moment's hesitation he pressed back, giving in to his own wordless need for reassurance.

They needed to get out of there. They needed to get Ofdensen to help. They needed to get themselves and the album master somewhere safe. They needed to regroup and figure out what to do next. They needed a drink, hell, a hundred drinks. Someone needed to take charge, only...who was it gonna be? Murderface? The bass player looked to be unhurt but totally transfixed by the destruction and chaos around them. Toki? The man was still to sick too stand on his own and clung to his rescuer like a tick. Nathan? The singer was still snarling softly and watching the shadows with a deadly air about him. Skwisgaar? All Pickles could see was a fall of blond hair, but he could feel faint tremors in the arm pressing more firmly into him.

Pickles rubbed his burning eyes again before letting his hand drop to Skwisgaar's knee for a second. Then he stood up.

"Hey! Listen t'me, ya douchebags." 


	2. Chapter 2

Pickles was tired, so very, very tired. He tried to count on his fingers the number of hours of sleep he'd gotten in the last week, but his blurry vision kept doubling his fingers to make a higher count that he knew simply wasn't true. The redhead had worked hard in his younger days. Hell, before Snakes n' Barrels had made any kind of name for itself it wasn't unusual for him to burn the candle at both ends and still be trying to cram more hours into a day. He had been hungry in those days. The term starving artist was sometimes pretty literal for a teenager who dreamed of being a rock legend and spent more money on hairspray, make up and drugs than he had food.

Trying to tackle Ofdensen's job? That wasn't just hard work. It was pure, unmitigated hell. Who would have thought that the band's joking taunts of calling their manager a robot had any basis in fact? Not having a need for food or sleep, Pickles thought wearily, was about the only way he could have coped. Even while extremely battered and highly medicated over in the hospital wing, Ofdensen's carefully constructed contingency plans were helping Pickles keep from making a total cock up of his efforts. Ofdensen had remained lucid just long enough to gasp the order to find his phone and dial 666.

That number had sent a highly encrypted signal to the pilot and crew of the fourth Hatredcopter. None of the band members had even known of its existence until the massive machine had materialized from seemingly nowhere in the smoky night. The highly specialized crew had descended upon the six men like a swarm of worker bees and removed them to an undisclosed location. Ofdensen had been carted off to surgery immediately. Only Dethklok would ever need transportation equipped with all the services of a small city.

Pickles sat behind the desk in Ofdensen's onboard office and tried again to make sense of the legal documents and carefully worded instructions he'd found on his first venture into the manager's territory. Trying to do it on no sleep combined with mental exhaustion and stone sober made the task all the more difficult. Ofdensen's plans were very thorough and far reaching, and he seemed to have covered every possibility. He must have known, somehow, that in the event of an emergency it would be Pickles who stepped to the fore. Not only were the staff deferring to his orders and giving him regular updates, but there was also a personal assistant of sorts plying him like clockwork with a cocktail of vitamins and medications to hold off the possibility of delirium tremens and withdrawal.

That same assistant had just been sent packing from the office by a stream of curses shouted in a Wisconsin drawl so thick it was nearly unrecognizable as English. The man had dared to suggest that Pickles sleep. Pickles dropped his head into his hands and pulled on his dreadlocks hard enough to make his eyes water, trying to use pain as a method to stay awake just a little longer. The scraping sound of a boot tread had him raising his head to snarl just what the fuck someone wanted now?

Skwisgaar stood in the doorway holding a steaming mug and looking awkward and uncomfortable. It was an unusual expression to be on his usually aloof and haughty face. He strode in briskly and thumped the mug onto the desk hard enough that some of the dark liquid slopped over the side to run precariously close to Ofdensen's papers. Pickles silently used the hem of his ratty shirt to wipe up the spill before it could stain anything and raised a questioning eyebrow. Skwisgaar folded his arms over his chest and turned his face away.

"Coffees. Dat man was runnings from here sayings you nots comings out to eat," he said, his bored tone implying he didn't give a shit one way or the other, but he watched for Pickles reaction from the corner of his eye.

"I'm naht hungry," Pickles mumbled.

"Nots hungry? Pfft! You don'ts eat, you don'ts be sleeping,"

"Yeah, so?"

"So? You'll be gettings sick. Who will be takings cares of things, den?"

Pickles choked back some hysterical laughter. Good question, that. He hadn't seen Murderface in days, but he hadn't really gone looking for him, either. It wasn't like the bass player sought anyone's company. Nathan never strayed far from Ofdensen's room. Pickles' three times daily trips to the hospital wing always showed the singer sitting in one of the visitors' chairs. Before entering the room he could hear the low growl of Nathan speaking to Ofdensen, but it was always too quiet for him to make out the words, and Nathan always stopped right before anyone came through the door. For all Pickles knew, Nathan could either be threatening or nagging the injured man towards consciousness. It was even possible the lyrics for a future album were being composed.

Toki had entered into a semi-catatonic state. He walked were he was led, mechanically ate what was placed before him and followed behind Nathan like an empty eyed shadow. The medics had assured that he was physically fine. Mentally? Well, Toki had done this before. Pickles wouldn't worry unless he quit eating which...led him back to Skwisgaar's question.

"I dunno," Pickles finally replied, picking up the mug without thinking about it and taking a sip. "Ofdensen was pretty prepared. It's mostly just following his instructions."

Yeah, simple. Right.

Skwisgaar unfolded his arms and riffled through the stacks of papers on the desk. One look told him all he needed to know.

"Mines English readings is inaddle-quit for dis," he admitted. "I's can'ts be knowings what it means."

Pickles huffed in agreement and cradled the mug with both hands to take a deeper drink. The warmth of the mug was soothing, and the brew was strong enough to wake the dead. In fact, it tasted a little scorched and bitter, but Pickles wanted the caffeine desperately enough to chew the grounds dry, there was even an obviously healthy slug of whiskey in it, and Skwisgaar had brought it. There was something else about the unusually thoughtful gesture, but Pickles was too tired to catch it. He kept swallowing because he got the feeling that if he offended the Swede by refusing Skwisgaar wouldn't do it again. Pickles almost choked on a swallow. Since when did he care if he offended Skwisgaar? He didn't know. Had his own mind always been this fucked up and distracted by stupid, useless musings?

Pickles drained the mug, never noticing the medicinal taste masked by the bitter coffee and even harsher whiskey, and spun it idly between his fingertips. He barely noticed that the Swede had moved closer and was watching him closely. iWhy doesn't he just go back to his guitar?/i Pickles' eyes blinked slowly, owlishly. God, he was tired. He felt numb and, until Skwisgaar had come in, he felt very, very alone and overwhelmed. He wanted so badly for Ofdensen to wake him up and tell him to sober up, to tell him that it had all been nothing but a bad dream brought on by too many drugs and too much alcohol.

Pickles suddenly found himself with his head pillowed on his arms on the desktop. Did Skwisgaar leave? He had to sit up. There was still too much shit to be done. He didn't have time for a nap. If he quit trying to forward Ofdensen's plans to do anything it would be to take a shower. He couldn't really remember if he had, everything was starting to run together, but the arm his nose pressed against still smelled of old sweat and char. Pickles tried to raise his head, but it was too heavy. Were his dreads holding him down? God, that was a stupid idea. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a minute, just a minute, things would start making sense again.

"Sleeps now."

Pickles dimly heard Skwisgaar's voice float through his fading consciousness, but he might have imagined the light touch to his face and hair before everything went dark and silent. 


End file.
